Flohimont

Flohimont, a village in the french Ardennes, a working-class neighbourhood built in rubble facing the FACTORY. It is like a candle in the middle of a cake, a giant chimney that pours into the air serpents of smoke. There, copper is transformed – it is one of the biggest tube mills in the world. It is also one of the greatest sources of employment in the area. Everybody knows somebody or has a family relation that works there. The work at the foundry is hard, the heat suffocating, the throat contracting, the chest oppressed. Sometimes, the bitter taste of copper, of foundry, of burning metal exit this fiery inferno, from its machines and its enormous furnaces that glow in the night like braziers. Out of them come rumblings that would chill the blood of the bravest. However, the indigent keep on working, twenty-four hours a day, to maintain the fiery hell alight. One morning, my uncle, a two-meter colossus and one hundred and thirty kilos returns home on his motorcycle after a night of labour. He is a broken man. One of his friends fell, head first, into a caldron of molten metal. He has gotten out… the body… missing the head.
Accident? Clumsiness? Fatigue?! Despair?
What now?